Geoffrey Gothard raised his arm, cocked his flintlock, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion rocked the Market Cross, momentarily startling everyone into silence. “I’ll see you at the gates of hell,” Gothard muttered into the void. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, signaling his younger brother to follow.
Ford Chase rushed forward when his own brother clutched his chest and crumpled to the ground.
FOUR
WAS THIS eternal torment? He felt so hot.
Crackling sounds slowly filtered through his consciousness. A grunt. A dull thud.
His eyes slit open, and his head split in two. Or it felt like it.
Hot. He was so hot.
Wincing at the brightness, Jason forced his eyes open wider. Shiny, deep red curls swam through his vision as someone moved to toss another log on the already blazing fire. Another thud, and waves of heat washed over him.
It was so hot in here.
He blinked once, then again. “Where—where am I?” he rasped.
The someone whirled. “At Cainewood, Jason. Home.” She rushed to his bedside and swabbed his brow with a warm, damp cloth. Her familiar lavender scent wafted around him. Her light green eyes were filled with concern.
Kendra, his vibrant, exasperating sister Kendra. He was glad to see her—but the expression on her face worried him.
And the heat.
“Egad, I’m hot.” He pushed at the covers—two thick quilts and a velvet counterpane—and tried to sit up. Pain knifed through his body. He fell back, touching his shoulder and chest gingerly. Thick bandaging. “What happened?”
A quick frown marred her wholesome features, then was gone. “Don’t you remember? You were shot.”
It all came screaming back: the limestone Market Cross, the weight of the rapier in his hand, the shock as it sank into flesh. Gothard, that blackguard, pulling a young man from the crowd to use as a shield.
“Heavens above,” Jason whispered.
He’d killed an innocent man.
“You’re going to be fine,” Kendra rushed to reassure him. “It was naught but a shoulder wound, and the ball came clean. The surgeon said you’ll be fine.”
No, he wouldn’t. He would never be fine again.
Jason shut his eyes and turned his head to hide the hot, unmanly tears that threatened. He was usually so level-headed; whatever had possessed him to take the law into his own hands?
Rage, that was what. Black, unreasoning rage. The sight of Clarice Bradford’s ghost-white face and her motionless, battered little girl. Just remembering made his blood seethe anew.
“Mary?” he croaked.
“She still lives. But she’s no better.” Kendra smoothed her lemon-yellow skirts, a cheery color that seemed to clash with the sadness clouding her face. She put a hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel hot. You’re not feverish.” She swiped at her own damp brow. “How are you feeling?”
“Awful. It’s too hot in here.”
“The surgeon said to keep you warm.”
“Surely you took him too literally.”
She bit her lip in a rare show of uncertainty. “I’ll go get Ford.” Giving his hand a quick squeeze, she hurried from the room to fetch her twin.
Jason lay still, gazing at the familiar stone walls of his bedchamber. Colorful tapestries lent the cavernous room an intimate feel and kept the drafts to a minimum. Cainewood Castle had always made him feel safe, peaceful.
But not today.
Pangs of guilt swept him in waves, only to be swamped by helpless anger. He had known the Gothard brothers would be long gone unless he acted immediately upon hearing word of their whereabouts—law enforcement in these parts was sorely lacking—just as he’d known Geoffrey Gothard was too dangerous to let go.
And Jason hadn’t been wrong: a wretched coward who’d use an innocent bystander as a shield was obviously dangerous.
But that innocent bystander would live today if Jason had chosen to wait for the authorities.
The pain in his head intensified.
He raised a hand to massage his brow. Why on earth did Gothard consider him an enemy?
Ford sauntered in at Kendra’s heels, flashing a hopeful smile. “How do you feel?”
“Awful,” Jason and Kendra said together, way too loudly.
Wincing, Jason pushed the long black hair from his eyes.
“It’s the laudanum.” Seventeen-year-old Ford stated the facts like the analyst he was. “The surgeon gave you enough to fell a middling-sized horse. Said you’d need it to survive the journey home, but that it may well give you a headache.”
“He may well have been right.” Jason closed his eyes and sucked in a steadying breath before opening them again. The candlelight seemed brighter than usual. Too bright. He blinked at the cobalt blue canopy overhead. “What day is it?”
“Friday. Evening.” Ford cleared his throat and leaned against one carved, twisted bedpost. “You were out for more than a day. Egad, it’s hot in here.”
Kendra glared at her twin. “I’ll open a window.”
“The door as well. And for heaven’s sake, bank that fire.” Ford turned to Jason, smiling at their sister’s overzealousness. Then his expression sobered. “I expect Gothard thinks you’re dead. You were covered in blood—”
“That of the person I…killed.” Jason’s chest constricted painfully. “Who was he?”
Ford blinked. “I don’t know. I rushed to care for you, and when I looked up, he was gone.”
“He wasn’t alone. His friends must have taken him. We’ll have to make inquiries—”
“In due time.” One hand on her hip, Kendra frantically fanned the door open and closed. “Cooler now?”
Her face was flushed to match her dark red hair. Jason smiled, though even that movement hurt his head. “Sit down, Kendra.”
The bed ropes creaked as she sat gingerly on the mattress. “I rode into the village this morning.” One of her fingers traced idle circles on the blue velvet counterpane. “I talked to Clarice.”
“She’s talking?” After the attack, Clarice had uttered nothing but Gothard’s name. Jason struggled up on his elbows, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the throbbing in his head. He had to go to Clarice, to offer her what comfort he could, to see if she knew any more about—
“Take it easy,” Ford warned.
Ignoring his brother, Jason tried to swing his legs off the bed, then stopped with a defeated groan.
